Frayed Dreams

Another set of dreams,
I seamlessly spin.
With smoke, dust and smoke,
They fade into a night so grim.

I seek the light.
I chase the day.
I begin to wonder,
If I'm running or running away?

As the dust and smoke,
Start to fade away,
I live in wonder and amazement,
Are all hopes meant to fray?

Kitschy dreams

If there is something I hate more than people who wear grey and cream together, is being absolutely jobless. Staring into space. Changing channels on the television. Refreshing my Facebook page again and again. It makes me feel like a married aunty whose sits around waiting for her husband to get back from work. And I don’t have a husband also. You see where this is going?

So a while ago, when Wastey tells me there is work opportunity for the two of us, I put on my prettiest shoes and run towards my new workplace in slow motion. Instant love connection happened. And I’ve been running to work and college and back to work ever since. While I do miss randomly hanging out after college, I could not be happier.

Working here also makes me feel a little Konkona SenSharma in Wake Up Sid. I always envisioned that kind of life for myself. Living independently and writing about things I love the most. I’m graduating in six months. May be that life is not so far away.

Speaking of Wake Up Sid and husband, I almost fell in love with Ranbir Kapoor every time he stepped out with his camera.

Then again, there are a lot of things about the movie that made me fall in love. Remember Konkona’s off-white kurta with the little camels all over it? I liked it so much I painted my very own version of that kurta. Except, I replaced the camels with ‘banjaaran’. I love being gypsy-ish like that.

I love how the entire movie had such a kitschy feel to it. Right from her bedroom to the Mumbai Beat office. My office looks a little bit like, with random colours splashed all over the place. May be that’s another reason I love coming here as much as I do.

P.S. Did I tell you, I went to Chor Bazaar to do a story? ^_^

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My brother and I talk sometimes. He does most of the talking. I pretend to listen for a while and then give that ‘are you suffering from verbal diarrhea look?’

A few weeks ago, he came running into my room saying he had to rush. I gave him the most disgruntled look ever, followed by a very long lecture. Reason? He was wearing a pair checkered shorts and a striped t-shirt. Just because they had the same colours, he thought it was socially acceptable to step out like that. What is a girl supposed to do when she sees such blasphemy being committed before her own eyes? He left me with no choice.

Yesterday we were walking home and he was telling me about how he thinks he is having a ‘hukka phase’. He was looking at me for some sort of sane advice. Stuff like stop destroying your lungs or I’m going to tell mommy.

Instead I look at him with a straight face. ‘Suit Yourself’. Those were my words of advice.

‘Tell me something! Scream at me!’

‘You can do whatever you want as long as you’re not doing in a pair of checkered shorts and striped tee.’

It was my brother’s turn to look at me absolutely straight faced.

Tomorrow is a new day.

I feel so starstruck right now.
So awed at the World waiting outside of where I live.
So privileged that I got a taste of a World I could only dream of.

Lakme Fashion Week was like a dream come true.
Sky high heels, beautiful silhouettes, famous designers, celebrities, wine and cheese parties.
It was all larger than life.
Way too much if you ask me and very little at the same time.

I knew this isn't a once in a lifetime experience.
I knew that I don't want to be a silent spectator, viewing the lives of the rich and famous from the eyes of the media.
I want to be them.

Nor do I want to simply sit in the audience watching designers after designers display their collection.
I want to be able to get on to that ramp and take a bow after the models walk the ramp in my creations.
The instant I sat in the hall on the first day, I knew I wanted life to give me a chance to live like this.

For a while now I've felt a little hopeless.
I know I'll be a Journalism student next semester and it makes me really happy.
I guess it's what I have wanted to do since I got my first star in fourth grade an essay I can't remember.
It's the thought of what I want to do after graduation, that's been keeping me awake.

I'm so glad I have found my calling now.
The mere thought of it fills me so much excitement.
That's exactly how I want my life to be.
I want to wake up everyday waiting eagerly for what the day has to offer me.
There is so much learn.
There is so much to do.
I never want to stop being a student.

Art and what it means to me

I was sitting in Candies before my exams pretending to study when this couple comes and sits in the table next to us. Delighted at the sudden distraction, i started eavesdropping on their conversation. I'm such a compulsive eavesdropper you know. I love listening to things I'm not supposed to listen to and switch off when I'm actually supposed to listen and absorb. The thrills of the 'Forbidden fruit' I tell you.
Coming back to the point. I was going to tell you what they were talking about and how it affected me. Well the word painting and art seemed to be omnipresent in their conversation. "I sold my painting for 20,000." "His parents wanted so badly to buy my new painting". "Sometimes I feel like I'm possessed. I sit all day working on my painting. And then there are times I can't look at my canvas for days."
It wasn't very hard to relate to what they were talking about. Even as a writer you feel pretty much the same way. But that wasn't why the conversation had an impact on me. It filled me with a sense of nostalgia for the world of colours, paintbrushes, messy hands and beautiful pictures. It took me back to the days when Art actually had some meaning in my life.
From the days in pre-school when I got a chalk-board to draw a picture accompanying the word I was learning, or the days in 7th grade when I tried so hard to make sure my paintings made it to the School board, or the day before my intermediate exam when I refused to sleep because I wanted to practice everything I could get my hands on. My notebooks are a living testimony to all my artwork. They contained less study material and more sketches. Infact the text books didn't escape the attack of the sketches either.
So here I am, years after I said goodbye to an important part of me, making a resolution that no matter what happens I am going to get that old box of poster paints out and sign up for canvas painting lessons before the end of next year! :)